Creatures of Addiction
by Little WingZ
Summary: When Spike and Angelus get into a fight with Drusilla, they decide to bring her a present... a very human present. But, what if this 'present' becomes more to them then a simple bargain to end a quarrel? AU! Spangel (slash) rating will go up.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Unfortunately I don't own any of the characters. So don't sue (and don't sew either)!

Title: Creatures of Addiction

Author: Little WingZ

Pairings: Spike/Angelus/Oz

Type: Angst and Romance and Alternate Universe

Rating: NC-17

Warning: Lots of warnings! Um... AU!!! Obviously male/male relationships (it's a threesome...;), torture, lots of blood, um... depression, drug use, Drusilla bitching, a 'maybe' character death.

_Creatures of Addiction_

_Prologue_

_Italy, 30 January, 2005. _

The sun is setting, plunging into the horizon. It is low enough that I can stand on the balcony, peering at the ocean below. The wind blows softly, spreading the promise of summer's arrival. As a never-ending reflex, I place my hands on the railing; the stone scrapes the silver ring settled at the base of my left thumb. Even though the smell of the salt water reaches me, it does not overpower the scents that linger on my skin. I find it rather interesting that odors can provoke multiple reactions. Similar to a déjà vu, it hits with such a force that you have to make yourself remember what it is that it represents or else it will not let your mind rest. It feels fantastic when the confusion becomes concrete though, but it, then, without exception, morphs into memory. Memories. God damn memories. While considering I am going to live forever, it's lucky for me that not every whiff makes my soulless emotions collapse in apocalyptic chaos. I _have_ gotten better at melodrama, whatever says Mr. 'All shall fall to their knees in admiration before me, gratefully kissing my oh so beautiful toes'. Anyway, I'll just keep on with my story. I don't want to talk about Angelus just now, the bloody bastard left early last night with a face that screamed "I run away from things as a profession and, you, what do you do?" as if it were written in enormous red letters on a stamp that covered the length of his forehead. Bloody poof!

Well, as long as he's gone, the bittersweet souvenirs can freely flow into my consciousness...

* * *

Author's note: GO READ THE NEXT CHAPTER ALREADY!!!


	2. The Gift of Insanity

Disclaimer: Unfortunately I don't own any of the characters. So don't sue (and don't sew either)!

Title: Creatures of Addiction

Author: Little WingZ

Pairings: Spike/Angelus/Oz

Type: Angst and Romance and Alternate Universe

Rating: NC-17

Warning: Lots of warnings! Um... AU!!! Obviously male/male relationships (it's a threesome...;), torture, lots of blood, um... depression, drug use, Drusilla bitching, a 'maybe' character death.

_Creatures of Addiction_

_The Gift of Insanity_

_Chapter I_

"Daddy, don't leave. Don't go" she repeats for the hundredth time, her childish voice resonating in the candle lit room. Her head sways from side to side following an imaginary rhythm, her eyes, who once drew me in, seem transfixed by an unseen entity. Long ago, I had tried to see and hear what came to her. It was foolish of me to think she might have been something else than utterly insane. Well, actually, I have to admit, some things she said had meening.

Drusilla's slender form is sprawled on the dark wood table situated in the center of the room. Her blood-colored dress molds her curves and stretches over her breasts with every unnecessary breath she took. I watch, mesmerized but indifferent, my eyes traveling the length of her snow-white neck down to her left leg, which hangs off the side of the table. Damn beautiful leg. I remember what it used to be like to sink my eager fangs into her creamy flesh. Aah! Delicious memories...

Suddenly, I'm pulled out of my fantasies by Dru's frantic voice.

"The... the sky shines. It whispers sweet things to me... secrets and lies... pretty lies."

Then, all of a sudden, her demeanor changes drastically. Hiding her face behind her manicured hands, she turns on her left side and, through her elegantly slim, slightly parted fingers, she looks at me... or so I think. She seems to be fixated on a spot beside me, completely oblivious to the fact that _I'm standing right here_. She slowly lowers her hands, brushing her soft, red-tinted lips before bringing one back up and resting it above her head while the other descends over her satin covered belly-button. Her lips move, forming soundless words. Gradually, her silence morphs into sounds and I hear her mumble, accentuating certain words:

"I see the stars, they blink and they dance. There's one, the one-" Drusilla places her fingertips on her forehead, closing her eyes, looking as if she is trying to remember something before continuing, her voice so fragile, "I can hear it... them... the stained innocent, the howling wolf, he sings... he cries. The moon drips with blood for it screams and he hurts and he bleeds."

Heavy and salted, crystal tears rolled down her cheeks, some spilling down her neck, others drying on her jaw.

For the first time, she stares at me through tear-soaked eyes. I stand by the front door, mesmerized, stoic. Hands in my pockets, I lean against the creaking hinges and feel them pressing into my back. Prying my eyes away from her snow white skin, I turn to meet the sound of slow and steady footsteps coming from my left. He advances towards me, that sly and sexy smile playing on his lips. Ignoring Drusilla's complaints, he comes to stand so close to me that I can feel his leather coat brushing against my naked wrist. While he places his hands flat on the brick colored wall behind me, caging my head between them, he stared into my eyes as if looking for secrets or lies. I am so enthralled by him that I only vaguely realize that his hands are moving downward, stopping on my shoulders, grasping the leather covered flesh just a little to strongly. With possessive force, he trails his long fingers along my muscular arms, tracing the curves they form. In each hand, he takes a hold of some of the fabric and pulls. Every movement is slow, so perfectly placed that it could be mistaken for a play rehearsal. This is the most dangerous form of manipulation he possesses; this is seduction. Tearing his eyes from mine, he peers down, his gaze screaming with hunger at the sight of my naked chest. Lifting his hands, he moves them to my neck, one under each ear, his thumbs brushing my jawbone.

All this time, Drusilla has stopped her crazy blabbering but I could not care less. All my mind and trembling body can register are the hunting eyes and insistent strokes. Like a dutiful child, I obeyed him by leaving my chest and back bear under the leather. He loves to discretely stroke my cool skin while out in public or to shamelessly display me to all. I know by the way he is reacting that I will be rightfully rewarded.

He entwines his eager fingers around the collar of the coat and, as he pulls down, revealing my white skin and narrow shoulder, he melts into me. His pink lips descend to taste the flesh at the junction of my neck and shoulders. They barely touch my skin, but I feel his lips part and, when he tentatively tastes me with the tip of his tongue, I shiver. He undoubtedly feels it for he reaches for the back of my neck and, clasping it firmly, grazes his fangs against my jugular, bringing forth miniscule but precious drops of blood, which he licks languorously, one by one. The sensations caused by the strokes of his tongue are awakening my body to pleasure. I feel small Goosebumps rising, gradually spreading from my neck to every hidden place. His mouth traces back up to my ear and he murmurs sexily:

"You're exquisite, Childe."

He fists his hand into my hair and places the other between my shoulder blades. Digging his fingertips into my flesh, he kisses me deeply, his tongue battling mine relentlessly. I suddenly feel shy, vulnerable and, involuntarily but instinctively, I pull away. That gut wrenching feeling has long since settled itself in my stomach. It spreads through me like a plague, hunting my hidden fears and doubts.

I try to keep my mind focused. I am Angelus' childe therefore my mind and body exist for him, solely for him... for his pleasure. But I am a rebel at heart so duty, rules and conformity have never applied to me neither have they been close friends of mine. I accept the authority he possesses as well as his rank, but I can no longer hide my true nature.

Suddenly, through the fog that has captured my brain and the thoughts that clouded my mind, I hear a horrendous shriek. I freeze. My eyes open and, over Angelus' shoulder, Drusilla stares at me with an accusing glare. She knows... she has read the tormenting thoughts I could not repress.

Sensing my abrupt reaction, Angelus breaks the kiss and takes a step back to have a better look at my face. I know he is waiting for me to look up at him, to return his gaze, but I am hypnotized by the hatred in my old lover's eyes.

Not letting enough time for an awkward silence to fill the room, Drusilla sits up abruptly on the table, placing her hands on the edge and grasping it so powerfully that I hear the faint sound of wood splinting.

Her body shakes. Her eyes are wild and her hair falls over her forehead down to her shoulders in a mass of ebony curls. She stares directly at me, running her hands from her hips to her neck, criss-crossing them across her stomach before tracing the curves of her breasts up to her hair. She fists her hands in the curls and violently pulls. She speaks to me in a low and hoarse voice:

"Children stray; masters beware."

Drusilla's body begins to sway, her head makes small circles, her brow frowning as if in deep confusion.

"The body has no resistance. Pleasure will always win. The mind will give in to domination and the body will submit. The body cannot fail the master but the mind rebels nonetheless. It wants to run, to cheat, to lie."

Abruptly, she stops swaying, her eyes focus on mine and she speaks, this time in a clear voice:

"It's becoming a very naughty slave."

_Slave_. That word unleashes a thunderous fury inside me and, against my better judgment, I push Angelus off of me and throw myself at her. I stand over her, my hands squeezing her delicate neck. She is leaning back against the table, surprised at the unrestrained anger that I am directing at her. Her eyes are wide and I can feel her nails scratching my face, raking down my neck and cutting my chest. I can smell my own blood flowing from my veins to stain her dress.

Grabbing her neck with more force, if that were ever possible, I bang her head against the wood, loving the marvelous sound it makes and hoping with all my might that she suffers from it.

As I beat her, I hear myself yelling, almost hysterical:

"I am not a slave. I was _never_ a slave! You-you read... you read me wrong. It's not me! It's _not_ me!"

I accentuate every scream with a violent shake of her head. My fingers are so tightly wrapped around her tender neck that it will surely break if I don't let go very soon. Even as I see bruises forming on her skin and feel the wetness of her blood seeping through my fingers and running down my arms, she stops defending her self and simply smiles at me.

From a distance, I hear someone come up behind me. Angelus places his hands over mine and, although with difficulty, he pries my fingers open and removes them from her neck.

I must be quite a sight. My eyes are swollen and red, my eyelashes are coated with tears.

I am reluctant to let go of her but I do realize that I must look very childish and, of course, hysterical.

Regaining my composure, I stand up straight, slicking back the curls. Stepping into my usual pose, I hook my thumbs into the belt loops at my waist and I wait...

I don't have to wait long.

Angelus grips ,y right arm and I flinch under the pain. I look up at him and the warning glare he sends my way makes every protestation die in my throat.

Drusilla, who is still lying on the table, starts giggling in a sweet and extremely annoying kind of way. She seems oblivious to her wounds as she wraps her arms around herself and says, adoringly:

"Oh, Daddy came to save me."

Tearing her glittering eyes from Angelus' face, she turned to me and says in a harder voice:

"You're in trouble, William."

Her use of my name makes my stomach turn and I clench my fists as my anger begins to flare again. Feeling the tension in my arm, my Sire tightens his hold on my flesh.

"Teach him, Daddy. Will you do it for me?"

She looks at him with a twinkle in her eyes and she repeats:

"Daddy's going to punish you, you ungrateful child. You'll pay for your disobedience. Won't he, Daddy?"

She reaches for him, but before her fingers touch his arm he, surprising all of us, viciously backhands her. Her already battered neck flips back with a loud crack. A helpless whimpering sound escapes her lips as pain shoots through her limbs and, brutally, she realizes that she's on her own. Retreating to the far end of the table, she backs into the silver candleholders. They fall to the floor with a dull clank that echoes through the grand room.

From the look on Angelus' face, I get the distinct impression that we won't be going out tonight, again. As I turn to go to my room and leave Drusilla to her painful fate, he reaches out with the speed of light and grabs my wrist.

Without looking at me, he says in his Sire voice:

"I don't remember permitting you to take your leave."

A little confused, wondering if I was not heading for a trap, I answer with _great_ assurance:

"I-I thought th-that you w-wanted to be alone. I figured our night out was c-cancelled."

Walking toward a panicked Drusilla, he replies very calmly:

"Don't assume anything, my dear William. We will go. I have no time to waste on this babbling bitch.

Standing beside her, he grips her arms and pulls her to her feet, ignoring her fearful pleas. Gripping her trembling chin between his fingers, he brings her face up to his and whispers:

"What's the problem, Dru? Are you reading my mind? Can you see what I'll _do_ to you if you don't _shut_ up?"

As the words leave his cocky mouth, he tightens his hold on her bones and she winces in pain trying to pull back. Mowing his other hand to her hair, he curls his fingers and pulls savagely, making her cry out in pain. He bends over and slides his lips from her bloodied mouth to her ear and murmurs:

"Don't worry, I'll deal with you later."

Lifting her by the hair, he throws her onto the table and her head meeting the wood makes a loud crack. Satisfied, he turns away from her and advances to meet me.

Stunned, I stare at her unconscious, prone body. Unbelievably, with genuine tenderness, Angelus slips his arms under my coat and across my back. He secures his hands on my ribs and stirs me toward to the door.

A half hour later, we arrive at CBGB's and I am glad to notice that we don't seem to be too late for the show.

Arm tightly wrapped around my waist, Angelus walks me through the front doors. The moment we enter, the music assaults us like the stares of demons and humans alike. He guides me through the crowd, all the while making sure to growl at anyone who dares to look my way. I lean into him as if to reassure him that I am his. He grips me tighter and backs me to the wall: his hand slips under my coat.

I turn my attention to the stage and two and only two thoughts came to my mind: band... fuckable guitarist.

Momentarily forgetting Angelus, I allow my gaze to travel his delicate silhouette. The multiple colored spots reflect upon his ebony hair, given a surreal glow to his ill-behaved spikes. The perfectly placed white spot at his feet created a combination of strange shadows. My gaze rests on his face: I can't seem to tear it from there.

His frowning brows hide his closed eyes, deeply engrossed. Head bent down, chin leaning against his chest, most of his pale face remains hidden. All that I can distinctly perceive are his lips: two sanguine petals against colorless, bleak skin. They mutely mimic the lead singer, sexily, unconsciously tempting. A silver loop protrudes from the right side of his lower lip. A small tongue occasionally slips out, licking the small cracks that are beginning to form, a hint of pink against the crimson. The harsh light intensifies the dark rings that round his eyes.

An immense clown face catches my eyes: distorted, disfigured. The colors seem dull, almost faded against the dark background but the writing stands out in immaculate white: "Can't sleep... clown will eat me." Smiling to myself, I add "or maybe something else will."

As he slightly hunches over his guitar, settling it against his hipbone, I can't faintly see the contractions of most of abdominal muscles and those along his arms as he brushes the metal strings with his worn fingers. The dark nail polish, omitting the fact that it is slightly chipped, make his movements easy to follow.

After that, his red guitar gets in the way. His cool posture denotes a complete relaxation.

As I discern his pulsing veins at his neck, I notice that his pulse is completely irregular and abnormal. Far too fast for any mortal to handle. Curious, I concentrate only on his hand gripping the 'manche'. He seems to be pressing down with such force that gradually his fingers turn white. He drags down to hit another 'cord' and the string bites into his skin, breaking the skin, freeing a few droplets of blood. It heightens my hunger. His entire body is trembling. He seems frail, content solely in being able to remain standing. It heightens my hunger.

As the last notes were played, a desperate cry erupted from the crowd: greedy, wanting more. The gathering of black, fuzzy silhouettes brandish their fists in turn, whistling and yelling: an deafening uproar of rebellious nature, a silent yet thunderous lamentation. The guitarist raises his head in a last burst of energy, his eyes lock on mine, the black eyeliner pierces through my soul. Green eyes attack my mind, wound me. Never had eyes affected me as they do. A small flicker of emotion passes through those pale orbs: swiftly, unrecognizable. Then, everything turns pitch black: no last call tonight.

I hadn't realized I'd been staring for so long. Angelus' glare told me as much.

An announcer declares what had already been mutely stated. The concert was over and done with.

Reality hits me like a ton of bricks. I'm being hogged out of the club amidst a mass of confused individuals mumbling about being cut short concerts and cute band members. This strange emotion courses through me... I realize that Angelus is pissed and I might be in deep shit.

We use a shortcut and pass through the backdoor where the band members usually exit and enter.

As soon as we enter the alleyway, Angelus shoves me against the opposing wall, my head connect firmly with its hard surface. Gripping my hair, he forces me to look up, into his own angered eyes. I try to free myself from his hardening grip but he forces me still with a simple, elementary word:

"Stay."

His tone is monotonous, it betrays absolutely no emotion. Usually, Angelus' rage would transcend a mean glare and a few shoves. Noting the fact that I am still in one piece and seem well off to remain that way, I wonder if he's simply toying with me or if I've truly pierced through the expertly constructed shell and reach what somewhat seems like a heart.

As I pursue my questioning, Drusilla's words attack my mind. "It's becoming a very naughty slave."

A slave... that's really all that I am.

Angelus raises his hand, preparing to strike at me but seems to halt his motion. He shakes his head, a soft hand lands on my cheek and simply caresses it then leaves. His eyes avoid mine. An indecisive hand reaches for mine and entwines our fingers. Turning, he steers me away from the door we had just crossed.

A not so far away scream catches our attention. As we turn around, we notice them coming from a little further down. Four blackened figures quarrel, three of them relentlessly hitting the other. We extend our hearing and grasp part of the conversation:

"-anything you want. I'll do anything but I don't have the cash."

"We've grown tired of your services."

More hitting. Someone hits the ground with a hard thud.

"If you don't have the cash, you don't get the dough."

"But you can't... I need-"

"We don't give a rat's ass about what the fuck you need. We need cash and you don't have it. End of story."

They turned to leave yet he obviously tried to follow. They hit him and forced him to the ground, a foot against his throat.

Two of them turned, laughing and the last kicked the prone form on the side of the face and turned towards us. They passed us without noticing until one of them spoke up:

"He's all yours."

A battered form limped towards us. Angelus pulled at my hand to leave but I was transfixed on this bloodied creature.

A hand extended towards us and I recognized the worn out fingers, cut by very thin strings. I wanted to lick them clean.

"Do you have any drugs?"

Unconsciousness claims the frail body before us.

* * *

Author's note: thank you for reading... :) Now, see that little button on the left side of your screen. Yes, yes, that one. Click and review!!! Thank you!


End file.
